


kick drum beating in my chest again

by cryptidkidprem



Series: all of my time in the world (i want you to be my one) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Footnotes, Love Confessions, M/M, it's about the Tenderness and the concept of Home and the Unconditional Love !, it's another love confession fic lads !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 05:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidkidprem/pseuds/cryptidkidprem
Summary: Aziraphale thinks,I never want you to leave, thinks he can’t stand to let Crowley out of his sight again. He thinks, after what he saw in Hell, after coming so, so close to losing Crowley and this life they've spent so long building together, he’d be stupid to let him go again.





	kick drum beating in my chest again

**Author's Note:**

> hm ok this is my first time writing fic for good omens. actually uh this is my first time writing fic for anything besides aftg. this is kind of strange for me? but goodness i've loved this book for years and i am having so much fun getting back into it u don't even know holy moly ! i know there's like a billion love confession fics already out there but it's Cathartic for my tender gay ass to write love confessions and first kisses like this, so.
> 
> this is. kind of a weird mix of book canon and tv canon, because i rewatched the entire show and reread the entire book in under 48 hours so now they're just kind of blurring together as one big hodgepodge of gay angels and demons and i can't really keep them separate.
> 
> title's from "(coffee's for closers)" by fall out boy because some Bastard had the audacity to put a crowley gifset with lyrics from that song on my dashboard and i've been spiraling about it for like a week. :~)

The strange thing, Aziraphale realizes, is that he’s never actually been inside Crowley’s flat. Crowley’s been to the shop countless times, spends enough time there that sometimes it can feel like he’s there more often than he’s actually gone. And yet, Aziraphale barely even knows where Crowley lives; just has a vague idea the building is somewhere in Mayfair.

It’s just strange, because for all the times he’s invited Crowley into his home, he’s never even seen Crowley’s.

(He’s wrong about that, of course, but in his defense, he has no way of knowing that yet.)

His heart doesn’t even technically need to beat, but it decides to anyway, and faster than normal, as Aziraphale follows Crowley off the bus that should be in Oxford right now. Crowley doesn’t say anything, just glances back to make sure Aziraphale is following, burying his hands in his trouser pockets and leading the way up to his flat.

Crowley’s shoulders slump as he walks through the door, shucking his jacket off and tossing it in a heap on his couch. Aziraphale almost frowns, but instead he just picks it up, brushes it off, ridding it of soot and ash and grime with a quick little miracle, and folds it delicately over the back of the couch. His own coat joins it a moment later, at odds with the black leather couch, and then Aziraphale doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He winds up just folding them in front of himself as he looks around.

He’s not sure what he thought Crowley’s place would look like. He’s not sure if the truth of it is exactly what he expected, or the complete opposite. Either way, it’s a little jarring; Aziraphale thinks it looks like all the worst bits of Heaven and Hell stitched together with modern decor and expensive furniture. Or, at least furniture Aziraphale assumes is expensive. Everything looks like it should be expensive, but knowing Crowley he might not have spent a dime on it.

The plants are a nice touch, but they seem to be the only lively thing about the place save for Crowley himself.

After a moment, Aziraphale is aware that Crowley’s watching him, even without looking, and even when Crowley’s wearing those dark glasses of his.

He’s over in the kitchen, leaning against the granite marble countertop. He looks like he’s _trying_ to look relaxed, but Aziraphale can tell he’s tense all the way from the living room. A symptom of knowing someone for so long; you just learn how to spot these things about them.

“So?” Crowley finally says, breaking the heavy silence that has fallen over them since they stepped off that bus.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “So?”

“You’re making a face,” Crowley comments.

“Hm. Well,” Aziraphale says, because as well as he knows Crowley, Crowley knows him just as well, so there’s really no point in pretending. Not anymore, anyway. “It’s just not very _homey_ , is it?”

Crowley scrunches up his nose, and Aziraphale wants to point out that now _he’s_ the one making faces, but doesn't. “ _Homey_?”

Aziraphale nods. “It just seems rather… _bleak_ , to me.”

Crowley shrugs one shoulder. “Yes, well. Bleak is fine. Doesn’t really need to be homey, does it?”

“Doesn’t it?” Azirpahale asks.

“Only homes need to feel homey, angel,” Crowley says vaguely.

“Crowley, you live here,” Azirapahle points out, “this is your home.”

“Not really,” Crowley argues, uncrossing his arms and sticking his hands in his pockets again, then immediately takes one out and gestures at the flat around them. “This is just… the place I come back to at the end of the day.”

Aziraphale blinks, and something subtle and significant shifts in his chest, but before he can do anything about it, even really acknowledge it or confront it, Crowley’s pushing himself off the counter and turning away. “Drink?” He asks, “I should have a decent vintage around here somewhere.”

Aziraphale hesitates, but there’s a lot left to figure out tonight, and the world’s not ending anymore.He nods and follows Crowley into his pristine kitchen. “That sounds lovely, my dear,” he says.

 

-

 

Afterwards, they stay much too long at the Ritz. Lunch fades into dinner, but neither one of them seem eager to leave. It’s like a little bubble has sprung into existence around their table, trapping so much warmth and fondness Aziraphale nearly forgets the world almost ended yesterday, almost forgets he literally spent his morning in Hell.

Except that things would be different if everything hadn’t almost crashed down around them. See, Azirpahale has always thought they had all the time they needed to figure… _things_ out. All the time in the world, really. And, he supposes, he wasn’t _wrong_ about that, but he’s recently had to come to terms with the fact that _all the time in the world_ might not be that long at all.

He almost lost Crowley twice in the last 24 hours, almost lost everything he loved about the life he's been building on Earth for 6,000 years, and that thought is absolutely intolerable.

And now, Aziraphale doesn’t know how much time they have, but he knows they have breathing room. With Heaven and Hell sufficiently spooked, there’s… So many possibilities, possibilities Aziraphale has been making himself bury for centuries, opening up before him.

So when the check finally comes, and they start getting ready to head off, Aziraphale thinks of Crowley dropping Aziraphale in front of the bookshop that’s no longer a pile of ash and rubble, driving off alone in his restored Bentley, thinks of him going, alone, to a flat that’s really just a place he goes back to at the end of the day, and feels his heart skip.[*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#note1)

Before Crowley can get up, Aziraphale leans across the table, laying his hand over top of Crowley’s wrist and just _leaving_ it there, splayed over his skin, thumb on the back of Crowley's hand.

“Oh, Crowley, come back to the shop with me,” he says.

Crowley stills, and a second, then two or three more, pass before he says anything. Finally, he nods. “Sure.”

Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley returns it with the same warmth he’s been radiating all day, like they’re both so relieved to finally be able to express it and they can’t quite seem to reign it in. Or at least Azirapahle can’t; he supposes he can’t speak for Crowley, but that’s what it feels like on his end.

Crowley drives, or maybe the Bentley drives itself, because Crowley spends more time watching Aziraphale than he does the road. Aziraphale doesn’t even have the heart to scold him; he can’t look away, either.

Aziraphale lets them into the shop, holding the door for Crowley and following him inside. He locks the door behind himself, makes sure the sign is flipped firmly to closed, and pulls the shades. It’s not as if he would ever open on a weekend, anyway, but this night belongs firmly to Crowley and himself, and he’s not about to let that be interrupted.

The lights come on of their own accord, as they tend to do upon Aziraphale’s return,[**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#note2) and Aziraphale takes a moment to scan the shop. It looks almost exactly as he left it Saturday morning before that unfortunate incident with Sergeant Shadwell and that da— blessed Circle. He never saw the fire, only heard of it from Crowley, so it’s almost like nothing’s changed.

Only, it’s like when you miracle a stain away; Aziraphale always _knows_ the stain was there, deep down. And this is like that; everything is back as it was, but there’s something underneath it. He’ll get used to it, eventually, but he can tell _something_ happened.

He hums pensively, tapping a finger against his thigh and taking a moment to let the shop settle around him.

“Something the matter, angel?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale turns back to look at him. He’s leaning with a hip against the counter, arms crossed loosely in another silhouette of attempted nonchalance that Aziraphale sees right through.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing, really,” Aziraphale tells him.

Crowley raises one of his eyebrows above his glasses, and he doesn’t even need to say anything for Aziraphale to know what he’s thinking.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, “there’s just a...  _feeling_  here, I suppose.”

“A feeling? Like, the opposite of when someone says ‘this feels spooky’?”

“No,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “It’s hard to explain.”

Crowley shrugs. “You could give it a shot. I’m probably the only other living thing on the planet who might understand.”

Aziraphale picks up a book— one that he certainly didn’t stock yesterday— runs a hand over the cover, sets it gingerly back down. “There’s something leftover,” he tries. “A little residual strangeness. You can tell reality’s been altered here. Or, I can, at the very least.”

“Mm.” Crowley nods, vaguely.

“I told you, it’s a bit hard to—"

“No,” Crowley cuts him off, “I get it. I felt that, too, this morning. Just a little shiver when you cross the threshold.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nods, and really, he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. Crowley’s here enough he’s practically part of the furniture. Other angels can sense _him_ when they pop in, of course he’d have a sense for what this place feels like.

“See?” Crowley says, looking away. “I’m better with these things then you give me credit for.”

Aziraphale has the distinct impression that there’s something he’s missing here; something rather important.Now it’s his turn to ask, “is everything alright, my dear?”

“Ngh,” Crowley says.

“That is hardly an answer.”

“Well.” Crowley frowns. “According to you, I’m incapable of comprehending something like love.”

Aziraphale blinks. “When did I say—"

“In Tadfield,” Crowley interrupts, “when we were trying to find Adam Young. You were going on about how _loved_ the place felt, and you said you couldn’t describe it—" he does air quotes with his hands, his mouth a thin, bitter line— “‘ _especially not to you._ ’”

For the second time in as many days, a subtle shift somewhere inside of him tilts Aziraphale's perception on its head. The last few days have been so chaotic, so terrifying, Azirpahale has to wonder what else he’s said, what else he’s done in his scattered state, to hurt Crowley. He thinks it might be quite a lot; he’d been pushing Crowley away harder than he had in several millennia.

“Oh. Oh, goodness,” he says, sighing.

“I do,” Crowley says, “I do understand it.”

“I know,” Aziraphale tells him, because he does know that. He doesn’t need any angelic extra-senses to know how much Crowley _cares_. “Oh, Crowley, I never meant to imply otherwise. I’m sorry, it seems there’s been… a bit of a misunderstanding here.”

“A misunderstanding.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nods. He crosses the room until he's standing in front of Crowley, then he reaches out, takes one of Crowley’s hands between both of his, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. They know each other, know each other better than Aziraphale can put into words,[***](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#note3) but this requires a level of honestly neither one of them have ever been able to give each other. “You see, that was actually a bit of a- a slip, on my part.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything; his eyes are hidden behind his glasses, but he’s looking down at where Aziraphale is still holding onto his hand.

“When I said I couldn’t talk about it with you, I only meant… Well, it might be a bit uncomfortable to talk about love with, well. With someone I…” He trails off; why in Hea— why on Earth is it still so hard to just _say_? He’s thought it enough times, it should be practically written on his face at this point.

“Someone you what?” Crowley asks, softly, _nervously_. Like he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

“Oh, you know,” Aziraphale says, blushing deeply even though, really, there’s no need for him to even have blood circulating, much less pooling in his cheeks. It’s like his corporal form is just trying to embarrass him.

“Maybe I don’t,” Crowley says, “Maybe I need to hear you say it. I mean, few days ago you said we weren’t even friends. You said you didn’t even _like_ me.”

Oh, dear. He had, hadn’t he? “A few days ago Hell would have _destroyed_ you if they found out we were so much as _talking_ amicably,” he says. “In fact, they tried to do just that earlier today.”

“And now, thanks to you, they wouldn’t even know how to destroy me even if they wanted to,” Crowley reminds him.

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale says, soft and quiet.

This is one of the reasons why things are so different now. There’s no reason why being around him — being with him — should put Crowley in danger anymore. They’re on their own side; they’ve effectively terrified their respective head offices into leaving them _be_.

For the first time in 6,000 years, the only thing standing between them is… themselves, really.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he supposes there could still be retribution. He could Fall for this, theoretically.

But he thinks, if loving a demon was going to get him cast out of Heaven, wouldn’t it have happened when he first started loving Crowley? Humans call it _falling_ in love, so if he didn’t Fall when he _fell_ then, certainly, that isn't Her intention here. She wouldn’t have allowed Aziraphale to keep doing it for centuries, millennia even, only to punish him for it _now_.

And then he thinks, even if She did, so what? In that moment, he decides, _it would be worth it_. Heaven has already all but cast him out; they tried to destroy him, eliminate his entire existence from the universe, burn him in hellfire, according to Crowley.

So if he’s really going to be forced to choose between Heaven and Crowley, well. The choice is obvious, isn’t it?

Heaven’s love comes with conditions, with strings attached. Crowley’s _doesn’t_. Crowley just loves him. Purely, wholly, unconditionally. _Beautifully_.

And, honestly, if love in any of its forms is going to be considered _sinful_ , then every angel in Heaven should just pack up their wings and start all over again because something must have gotten terribly mucked up along the way.

So Aziraphale sighs, and then he smiles, tentative and soft. He frees up one of his hands and moves it to Crowley’s face, gently cupping his cheek, running his thumb over his cheekbone.

And it’s lucky Crowley doesn’t technically need to breathe, because he’s certainly just forgotten how.

“You know, my dear, you never said anything to me, either,” Azirpahale reasons, but his tone is mostly just fond.

“I didn’t think I _needed_ to,” Crowley pushes his glasses up so he can rub his free hand over his eyes, and then he just leaves them perched on the top of his head. Aziraphale’s tempted to snatch them away completely, but this is fine, too. He loves it when he can see Crowley’s eyes. “I mean, for somebody’s sake, angel, I _stopped time_ to keep you talking to me. I asked you to _run away with me_. What did you think that was about, a friendly business trip?” He gives his head a little shake, but doesn’t dislodge Aziraphale’s hand. “Come on, I know you’re cleverer than this. In six-thousand years I have never tried to pretend I wasn’t in love with you.”

Aziraphale hums, trying to cover up the way his heart is acting more human than it has any right to and speeding up behind his ribs. “Crowley,” he says, even and steady like these things have never been for him, “I love you. I do. I love you _dearly_ , so please don’t doubt that again, alright?”

“Right,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale is woefully unprepared for the way his voice wavers, almost cracks. “Alright.”

Aziraphale keeps tracing his thumb back and forth across Crowley’s cheek, because it seems to be getting a good reception. “I know these past few days have been something of a nightmare,” he beings.

“Understatement,” Crowley grunts.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees, “but I rather think we should just forget about any harsh words exchanged. We were scared, and I’m sorry if I said or did anything that might’ve caused you any more pain.”

Crowley shrugs. “’S’okay,” he mumbles. “Like you said. We were scared.”

And Aziraphale knows how hard it is for Crowley to admit that; he has an image to maintain, after all. It would be an awfully strange world if demons went around getting scared and being nice. But one truth that has proven unshakable in the last 24 hours is that this world is _plenty_ strange.

“You’re not going to apologize to me?” Aziraphale asks.

“I didn't do anything.”

“You called me stupid!”

“Well, yeah, because you were _acting_ stupid!”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat there; it’s the same familiar routine, the same familiar bickering that mostly just makes him feel warm. This time the warmth is so strong, so intense, that instead of saying anything else, he uses the leverage he has from where he still has his hand on Crowley’s cheek to pull him forward and kiss him.

Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat, and then he all but collapses against Aziraphale, slipping his arms around him and holding him like he's the only thing keeping Crowley tethered to the surface of the earth.

You’d think kissing is a very human concept, something angels and demons and other beings of a celestial origin wouldn’t bother to do themselves. But the thing is, Aziraphale and Crowley have spent so long around humans, they’ve kind of rubbed off on them, haven’t they? There’s a lot of human things Aziraphale enjoys that the other angels scoff at. Fine food, old books, vintage wines, and, yes, most definitely kissing.

Especially kissing _Crowley_.

Kissing Crowley is, is— it’s _nice_ , it’s so, _so_ nice.[****](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#note4) For a moment, he’s not holding Crowley up, but Crowley’s holding him up, or maybe they’re holding each other up through sheer force of will.

It feels like, _yes_ , like this is exactly what they were made for, like something that has been slightly off all this time is finally clicking into its proper place.

It’s messy, because it’s desperate, because, even though they have all the time in the world, and even though _all the time in the world_ now stretches out indefinitely before them, it feels like making up for six millennia of missed opportunities, six millennia of wanting and waiting and _loving_.

Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s hands shaking when they finally break apart, and, oh, goodness, so are Aziraphale’s where they’ve buried themselves in Crowley’s hair.

Maybe Crowley never hid how he felt, but Aziraphale realizes now that he has been holding back. They both have, and centuries worth of it have just come up in the span of just a few, endless minutes.

They don’t go far. Aziraphale lets his forehead rest against Crowley’s, keeping him close, close. Aziraphale fights for a breath he doesn’t even need, and doesn’t even bother to try and open his eyes.

“’m sorry I called you stupid,” Crowley blurts, shaky, a little rough around the edges, “but I did also call you clever. Twice.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale tells him, smiling like the sun has just come up in his chest and kissing him again.

“I love you,” Crowley says, against his lips between kisses. “I love you, angel.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, just as heady, just as desperate. “Crowley, stay. Stay here,” the added _with me_ goes without saying, but after a moment's deliberation, Azirpahale thinks better and says it anyway. Too much has gone unsaid between them over the years.

“I’ll stay as long as you still want me around,” Crowley tells him, punctuating the sentence with a kiss that lands haphazardly on the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth.

Aziraphale thinks, _I never want you to leave_ , thinks he can’t stand to let Crowley out of his sight again. He thinks, after what he saw in Hell, after coming so, _so_ close to losing Crowley and this life they've spent so long building together, he’d be stupid to let him go again.

He also thinks of the little flat he has upstairs. Rarely used, but there, and he thinks it could be persuaded to make some extra room for a few dozen houseplants, should the need arise.

“Stay with me,” Aziraphale repeats, and then they don’t speak again for a while. He can tell him the rest later.

 

-

 

The really strange thing, or maybe it’s not actually strange at all, is that it all feels so normal. Sharing a life with a demon; it should go against Aziraphale’s basic programming, he should balk at the very concept. But Crowley fits into the space in Aziraphale’s life as well as all his books fit on the shelves of his shop.

It’s like this was where he was meant to be all along; right here, with Aziraphale, on their own side.

And if Aziraphale were to ask Crowley, he’d agree. Or at least he’d think it; it might take awhile for him to admit out loud, even to Aziraphale. He is still a demon, after all.

See, Aziraphale was operating under false pretenses when he assumed Crowley’s Mayfair flat was his home. Crowley’s flat was never his home, could never be his home; Hell was never his home, either, nor any of the other physical or metaphysical places he’s occupied over the millennia.

When Crowley thinks of _home_ , he thinks of dinners at the Ritz, of long walks in St. James’ Park, rides in the Bentley with a Heavenly backseat driver telling him to slow down and watch the road. He thinks of long nights spent in the backroom of a dusty bookshop with an angel, sometimes drinking themselves silly, sometimes just silent and content to conduct their own business in each other’s company. He thinks of 6,000 years spent getting to know someone deep enough that he thinks he knows him down to his core, down to his _soul_ , practically better than he can even know himself. He thinks of six thousand years of saving each other and tempting each other and falling in love.

See, the thing is, home has never been a _somewhere_ to Crowley; home, to Crowley, has always been a _someone_.

 

* * *

 

* Quite possibly in a literal sense; angel’s hearts don’t really need to function the way human’s do, do they? [↑](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#top1)

** There are too many lamps in the shop for Aziraphale to bother with switching them _all_ off and on every time he leaves or comes back. Crowley’s not the only one who uses minor miracles to make the world behave the way he expects it to behave. [↑](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#top2)

*** Aziraphale would say it’s ineffable, but he knows Crowley would hate that. [↑](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#top3)

**** 'Nice' in this instance simply means “good” or “comforting” or “such a bloody relief, thank Go— Sa— _somebody_ that this is finally fucking happening” and all those other mushy things people often use to describe their significant other, and is not being used in the _and Accurate_ sense that some witches will use that word these days. [↑](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19370236#top4)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading !!! i hope y'all enjoyed it !!! feel free to come talk 2 me over on tumblr [@lovesickcrowley](https://lovesickcrowley.tumblr.com/) !!! i'm on a big good omens hyperfix so it's a good omens Lockdown on my blog atm


End file.
